


A touch here, a smear there

by ChocoNut



Series: Modern JB love [74]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Foreplay, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by the love scene in Ghost, Sexual Tension, Sexy Times, Vaginal Fingering, pottery, slow seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Brienne decides to take up pottery as a hobby. And when Jaime sits down to watch, it's more than clay at play.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Modern JB love [74]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557871
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	A touch here, a smear there

**Author's Note:**

> This is an effect of me re-watching Ghost today.  
> So yeah, this had to be written else I won't be able to sleep tonight.

“I didn’t know you dabbled in pottery.” 

When Brienne answers with just a smile, Jaime pulls up a chair so her wheel is in his direct line of vision, surveys her work-in-progress with interest. “Go on, pretend I’m not here. I can wait.”

 _Pretend?_ As if that’s even possible. She returns to her pliant clay, though, hassled and distracted at his unannounced arrival. Thank the gods he can’t see how her mind has been wandering since she’d begun with this new hobby that was turning out to be more problematic for her as she got deeper into it.

_Deeper._

She bites her lip and takes his advice, ignores his presence to go back to massaging this urn or whatever it is going to turn out to be, her fingers patiently working it at, moulding it into shape. The steady whirring, the dampness of the vibrations against her skin—her pussy hums at the sensuality taking birth in her hands, at what it has boiled down to in her dirty mind. 

His hand caressing her, his finger pressing and stroking the soft, squelchy, velvety wetness that is her—

_Deeper._

Her fingers stir her creation, shivering slightly with the gentle streaks of current that flow through her limbs, heat gushing up her neck, cheeks, her thin cotton blouse sticking to the copious streams of sweat flowing down her chest and back. 

_Damn, it’s bloody hot in here!_

She huffs out a long breath, hopes that might shake her up a bit, get her in order.

_Ignore. Pretend he’s not here._

She does—makes an attempt, at least. She tries to focus on the spinning somewhat cylindrical shell of earth before her, tries to knead it into whatever respectable shape she can give it, tries to ignore the nipples straining against the drenched lace of her bra, tries to mask the needy clenching of her thighs as a casual shift in posture. No, she isn’t aching down there, her pussy isn’t on fire. It’s just the heat from this, the strain of being at it for a while. 

“You’re sort of losing it, Brienne.”

Before she can brace herself, Jaime’s behind her, his chest pushing into her back, his arms on hers, fingers threading into hers, guiding her up and down the clay. “There—” his hoarse breathy voice kisses her ear, floats down her sweaty blouse to make its seductive presence felt on her hard nipples. “Like this—” 

She holds back a squeal when his clay-stained fingertips dance up her hand. Her breath stalled for a second in her chest, she goes very still, waits, waits for—

_Gods, yes!_

This is a very _different_ whirring. Just like in her filthy imaginations, he’s all over—her wrists, her elbows, her arms—him and the clay, the fire and the dampness. She rubs her thighs together, leans back so his mouth rests on the crook of her neck. She can feel his eyes dip into her blouse, the sparks from his gaze igniting her nipples. Rivulets of sweat, hers and now she can feel his, and thin layers of clothing—that’s all that separates them now.

“Listen, I—” he breathes hard, as if he’s lost his way on what to say. “I could stay for a while and teach you,” he huskily offers, his hands straying off their path to squeeze her waist. “If you’ll have me.”

A whimper, a barely-there, “yes,” she invites him with, leaning back, letting her head rest on his shoulder. His hands slide up to claim her breasts, cupping, squeezing, smearing her blouse with clay. A sigh, she lets go of, when he takes it further, reaches into her bra. Sweat and damp earth and his cologne drift up her nostrils, clogging her mind and taking over her senses when he paints her nipples with the shades of his lust. With a long drawn moan, she rubs her thighs together, grinds her body against his, letting his hands turn her pristine white lace into a filthy reminder of every hot fantasy, every naughty thing she’s wanted him to do to her. That he’s been wanting this with her is both a pleasant surprise and too hot to deal with at this present moment.

“ _Yes, please, yes_ ,” she whimpers, when one hand finds its way to her crotch. Suddenly, her shorts don’t exist anymore. Her panties feel like they’ve melted into thin air. Wet earth, her arousal, his greedy fingers—this stifling room narrows down to this and his clay-clad fingers all over her tits. 

Blood rushes to her clit—engorged, she’s his to mould. Her soaked pussy at his mercy as his fingers race away at the pace of the wheel, his expert caresses of her breasts—the intensity of it all shoots through the roof when his mouth presses deeply into her sensitive neck. Lips marking his presence on her flushed skin, he burns her with his touch, stays there to scorch her, then sucks away a trickle of sweat like a man stranded in a desert for days. “Wench—”

She digs her nails into the clay, dents the smoothness that defines its form. Her senses set off into a series of explosions, and needing this to never end, her pussy weeping for more, she lets go of the wheel and turns, captures his gaze. “Jaime—”

And he captures her lips, ensnares her in a kiss she’d require good effort to put out of her head for a while. His hand creeps up to her waist and slips into her shorts, eager fingers pushing her panties out of the way to get to exactly where he wants to be. Prodding and nudging, he keeps going, coaxing out indecent moans, edging her whilst his tongue flutters away against hers, both getting into tune, building their own rhythm. 

Slow, but not that much. Then fast. _And—fuck—faster!_

_And deeper._

Yes, he goes in harder, pushing deeper into the kiss. He goes faster, taking her one step, two steps… closer and closer to the climax that’s cornering her from all sides, caging her in this erotic prison there’s no way out of, but surrender. 

When he’s beginning to bring her down, she presses closer, lets her clay-ey hand drag down his belly to meet the tent in his jeans.

She gropes, cups his erection, strokes him, gently, then firmly, then even firmer.

He grunts, jerks against her, goes down harder on her. Tremors, shockwaves—his fingers are all that and so much more. His kisses are avalanches, crashing into her, drawing her to where there’s no return from, compelling her to cave in, to just let go and embrace the onslaught.

And when it strikes her, she becomes one with it, one with his groans, with the heat in his mouth, with the clay he’s clothed her with. With her collapse comes the collapse of what’s left of her urn. Like her, it is reduced to a mushy mess, the clay all over, splattering them with a fresh shower not unlike the gushing wave of wetness between her legs.

When he pulls away, like the scattered chunks spinning away with the steady motion that governs its fate, she wants to begin all over again. Her wheel, he is, she wants him to shape her with his passion, to again, melt her with his smouldering body, to smear her with his desire, to fill her, hard and deep, to take her up and bring her down, to leave her squishy and throbbing and trembling, just like the spread of brown blobs she’s left circling by her side.

“If—” he clears his throat, panting as if he’s run a hundred miles. “If you’re up for some lessons, I’ll be more than happy to stay behind and help,” he rasps, dragging up his hand to her cheek, smearing what’s left of the clay on her skin.

Brienne glides her fingers down his throat, halts at his Adam’s apple that’s bobbing up and down beneath her touch in anticipation before descending further to unbutton his shirt. “Why don’t we start right now?” she whispers, hungrily consuming him in a kiss she can’t resist.

Clay and him—that’s all she needs tonight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
